


like gold

by fernic



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, this takes place before they leave for Troy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 12:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11578371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernic/pseuds/fernic
Summary: Patroclus answers by kissing his open palm, tracing along the very lines of fate that he desperately wants to change.





	like gold

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during one of the nights **before** they leave for Troy.
> 
> I did not tag this as underage because, considering the time and age that this story takes place, they are certainly not underage to be taking part in sexual acts.

The moonlight falls like leaves do in the fall, with grace, and with silence. It lays itself upon Achilles' bare chest like a blanket, and Patroclus slowly rests his hand on the light. He can feel the thrum of Achilles's heart under his skin, the way it picks up the moment he presses his palm against his chest, feeling the warmth, the pulse.

It's their third night back at Achilles' kingdom. Patroclus refuses to call it home, even though it is as close to a home than anything he has ever had. His cold castle walls of his childhood were more of a prison than anything else. This kingdom is warm, a place where love falls as free as the water in the river. It is the last place of comfort, where he found himself and the only thing that mattered to him. _Matters_ , he corrects himself. _He is not gone yet._

He doesn't like the think of the prophecy, not at night. And yet, it plagues him. He does not want to imagine the wine-colored blood spilling from Achilles' shred skin, of how it will feel to sleep alone in a cold bed, much too big for one soul alone. His mind is full of images he wished he could banish but cannot. Perhaps this is his punishment for loving him so much. Perhaps the gods wish to show him another reason why he is so wrong in how he feels.

Beneath him, Achilles stirs. "You are awake," he slurs. His words crawl out of his mouth, lazy from exhaustion. His breath is wet and warm and it hits Patroclus's forehead. 

"Yes," Patroclus answers. It isn’t like he can lie. The truth is that he cannot pretend to sleep for another night, cannot pretend to be unbothered by the future. He needs to absorb every second they have left and store it where he can remember.

"Why?" Achilles asks. It's a meaningless question, they both know. Patroclus shifts and presses his nose into the crook of Achilles’ neck. Here, he can smell him, the faintest hint of sweat covered with the tang of citrus and olive oil. Patroclus parts his lips and presses them against the sharpness of his collarbone. He has the urge to lick his skin, but he holds back. He cannot devour him; not yet, not now. He wants everything to sink in slowly, like the tides of the water in the sand.

"I am not tired," Patroclus finally answers. His words are barely audible between kisses over Achilles' neck. "I want my time to be better spent."

"How so?" Achilles wonders aloud. His voice is tight, constricted. Patroclus kisses the bump in his throat and feels it bob up. How wonderful, these moments are, Patroclus observes. He feels every working part of Achilles, every tendon, every muscle pulled tight under caramel skin. He licks up the column of Achilles' neck and smiles when he feels him squirm.

"You do not like it?" Patroclus teases. 

"When it is you who does it," Achilles whispers, "I cannot help but love it."

The words pierce his heart. Patroclus wants to swallow them whole, keep them in his chest and let them sit there. He closes his eyes as he sits up and lets every feeling sink into his mind. This will be what he remembers, he knows that now. He will remember the warmth of skin, the words from swollen lips, the hardness of muscle built up only through rigorous training and blessings from the gods themselves. 

"You are not making this easy," Patroclus says. He sits atop Achilles, knees pressing into the heavy bedding on either side of Achilles' hips, body pressed down so he can feel every part of him. He supports himself with hands rested on Achilles’ chest, both where he can feel the steady thrum of his heart. 

When Achilles smiles, it is a sad one. "I know."

"Do you not pity me?" Patroclus asks. It is not what he means to say, not all of it. He doesn't want pity, after all. He wants ignorance, he wants avoidance. He wants to leave the problem alone until it arises again. _They still have time, they still have time._

And yet, that time is not enough. Five days until they will be sent off, until they will collapse from exhaustion every night from fighting, until he will have to grow used to the sight of blood dirtying Achilles' skin and perhaps his own as well. He does not want the reminders, not now. What he aches for is the bliss of ignorance.

"Of course I do not," Achilles says. He reaches up, perhaps meaning to cup Patroclus' face, but he turns his head so his fingertips can only graze upon his chin and the light stubble that grows there. "You are strong, Patroclus, you know that. I need not worry about the future. I have you now, and that is enough."

"It is not," Patroclus insists. Now he reaches up and grabs Achilles' hand, presses it to cup his cheek. His thumb brushes along the soft skin that covers Patroclus's cheekbone, not hardened like Achilles'. He is soft still, not hardened and ready for war and brutality like Achilles is. 

"You are right, it is not," Achilles admits. "But let us pretend it is, if only for the night."

Patroclus answers by kissing his open palm, tracing along the very lines of fate that he desperately wants to change. Soft lips bump over calluses, the skin hardened from constant drills with the spear crafted for him by Chiron. It suits him well, but it takes away the softness his hands once had when they were back on the island. When Achilles disguised his boyishness with oils and lotions that made him glow like gold. Patroclus misses the nights of downy skin, hands like velvet running over him with no end in sight, every night a cloud of whispers and pleasure.

Underneath him, Achilles stirs. His hips rock up a little, and Patroclus feels him, warm and solid, pressing against his inner thigh. His tongue darts out and runs up Achilles' thumb. Here, he tastes something like magic. These hands are the ones legends speak of, every digit part of a brutal machine, a boy made to fight, made to kill. A boy only gods could create.

And yet, Patroclus can taste his humanity. As he bends down, as he kisses his lips, his jaw, his neck, he feels the breaths that quicken, the way he sighs softly when Patroclus bites the softness of his relaxed belly. There is a certain behavior only humans can attest to, and he sees it now. Only humans fall weak to those they love; only humans find their purpose to live in someone else's eyes.

Now, Patroclus feels like he is drowning. He looks up and is stuck in a forest of green. He wishes he could travel back up and stare into Achilles’ eyes for eternity. He wants to count the specks of gold that float in emerald irises, wants to watch as the blackness of his pupils widen and thin again and again. Achilles watches at Patroclus slowly pulls away the sheets that have wrapped themselves around his waist. He sees him, all of him, and hums.

His kisses are soft like flower petals. Patroclus hears his name, a whisper of a sharp tongue, and wants to open his mouth and invite him in. He doesn’t. He bides his time, waits, soaks in every twitch and moan that fall from Achilles’ lips. He is sensitive, jumping at every lick and kiss, and Patroclus feels himself wind tighter. Even he is growing impatient.

When he finally takes Achilles into his mouth, he wonders if there is moonlight upon his back. He tastes nothing different than skin down here, except it’s more salty, like ocean water upon his tongue. Sweeter, though, like honey. Where his mouth does not reach, his hands do. He touches the base of Achilles’ length with a single finger, slowly tracing upwards as he swallows the bitterness that starts to leak steadily. Fingers run through his hair, pulling at feather-like locks, urging him on through gentle scratches against his scalp. 

Achilles’ hips rise up as Patroclus’ does often when he is touched. The night blesses them with the wind, a breeze that howls softly and covers up the groan of Patroclus’ name. He has never heard Achilles so desperate, voice so full of ache. He says it as he always does, with diction, as if every syllable is worth all the time and space in the whole world. This is the man of whom legends leech off of, of whom is spoken about in places he has never even visited. _Achilles, Achilles, Achilles_ , they say. And here he is, heart racing and skin thrumming, saying over and over again: _Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus._

It does not take long for him to finish. They are still boys, despite other claims of them being men. The quick spills are nothing to be ashamed of, not with each other. He is steadied with Patroclus kissing his hips, mouthing along the bones that rise up, fingers still softly stroking him like an embrace. His mouth is sticky and he longs for water to wash it out with, but he does not want to get out of bed. He licks along his teeth, let's Achilles pull him up and kiss him like he holds his dying breath. 

Patroclus is numb when Achilles touches him. He feels as if he is in a fever induced dream, eyes squeezed shut and senses amplified, yet feeling nothing but a shadow of everything. Achilles whispers to him through it all: kisses every part of him, holds him so tightly he believes he stops breathing at one point. 

“I love you,” Patroclus says after they are finished. The words are too simple for what he wants to say. How can he explain what he feels whenever Achilles looks his way? How can he state what weight his heart holds for him? How can he say that he has already planned to take his own life when Achilles is torn from him? _I feed off of you_ , he wants to say. _You are everything; you are the only thing that connects me to this earth._

_Without you, I am already gone._

Achilles doesn’t answer. Perhaps he knows what Patroclus means. Perhaps it is too painful to murmur the words back to him. Whatever the case, he hears them, and he sinks down, rests his ear against Patroclus’ chest and listens to his heart. “While I still can,” he whispers.

They do not sleep. At least, Patroclus doesn’t. He remains awake, staring at the ceiling, dreaming of things he wishes would not come. He wonders if Achilles’ blood will spill red on the sand, wondering what will become of a boy who is left alone by a boy who is like gold.

**Author's Note:**

> okay that was it i'm pretty happy with how this turned out actually??? although it is super short.
> 
> Maybe I'll write something else??
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy your day, lovelies.


End file.
